


Clockwork Soldiers

by anonemone



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - World War II, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Racism, Rhodey is Captain America, Rhodey-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-15 21:29:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10557992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonemone/pseuds/anonemone
Summary: The Director stares at him levelly. “The world needs a Captain America.”Captain America. The name brings a whole slew of memories that he came to the range to not deal with. “You sure you don’t mean a War Machine?”Or, the story of how James Rhodes got his many names.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I am an Asian kid living in Asia in the year 2017. For a huge part of this story, I will be writing about a Black man and his Jewish friends in the 40s. I have done all the research that I could, but of course no amount of research could ever give me that experience. If I write anything disrespectful, please let me know and I’ll do my best to fix it. 
> 
> Also, I know it’s etiquette on AO3 to focus on the positive in comments, but for this one, I welcome any constructive criticism. I really love this concept and I want this to be good.

There’s a phenomenon called ‘auditory exclusion’-–in high stress situations, the brain filters out sounds it perceives as noise to allow it to focus on what’s important to survive. Rhodey’s heard people say that they don’t hear their own shots out in the field, only what’s going on around them, which, somehow, seems like utter bullshit. Then again, what would he know?

The gun in his hands was a lot quieter than the ones he was used to, but each gunshot was still a good 150 decibels, and louder to his ears, he knew, than they would be to any other human being. He wasn’t even wearing ear protection; it wasn’t as if hearing loss could ever be a problem for him.

But whatever the serum did to his ears, it did to his brain, too. He hears the gunshots perfectly, gunshots that should have drowned everything else in the room out, but he could also hear the director of the spy organization that dug him out enter the shooting range and lurk in the shadows by the door.

Enhanced senses were a funny thing.

He unloads the clip, all perfectly in the exact same spot just about an inch to the right of bullseye. Guns these days were a lot more precise, too. He reloads and goes another round before walking to the table behind him and starting to disassemble and clean his gun.

The Director walks out of the shadows, in what he probably hoped was some dramatic reveal. “We have people to do that, you know.”

Rhodey shrugs, not even looking at him. “It’s therapeutic.”

The Director places a folder on the table and then rotates it to face Rhodey.

“A mission?”

“A new start.” He opens the folder, which Rhodey still studiously ignores in favor of his gun, but of course he can read every word from his peripheral vision. Enhanced senses were a funny thing. “It’s all here. Same name, new background, nice little flat in DC. Take it and, if you want, SHIELD will leave you alone.”

Rhodey finally takes his eyes off his gun and looks at the Director, amused.

“Well, we’ll monitor you, but you’ll be free to do what you like, pursue your dreams, whatever.” The Director leans back and clasps his hands behind his back, his military bearing making it look more like parade rest. "The other option is you still take it, but you come work for us. You can even go to Sci-Tech, if you prefer. I hear you’re a brilliant engineer.”

“Not what  _ you _ prefer, though?”

The Director stares at him levelly. “The world needs a Captain America.”

_ Captain America _ . The name brings a whole slew of memories that he came to the range to  _ not _ deal with. “You sure you don’t mean a War Machine?”

The Director sighs and chooses a different tactic. “Did you know that it was Agent Joseph who recruited me?”

Rhodey’s robotic movements pause.

“My father, he was a soldier in the war, with the 761st Tank Battalion. Other kids had fables and fairy tales; well, I had my dad’s war stories. My favorite one, and his, too, was about how War Machine saved his unit from certain death. When I got into the CIA, I started digging into the US War Machine program, which led me to Project Rebirth and eventually, to Agent Joseph.

"She’s told me about you, Captain. How smart you are, and brave, and capable. How great a leader you are in the field. How good a man you are.”

Rhodey sets the partially-cleaned, now reassembled gun down on top of the folder. He leans closer and stares the Director down. “Then you know I don’t enjoy being used as a weapon.”

The Director breaks parade rest, the tension leaving his shoulders. He knew he had him. “I’m not going to lie to you, Captain. You’d still be working from the shadows. It’s what Agent Joseph founded SHIELD to do. There’ll be times when I can’t show you the whole picture. 

“But the truth is we need  _ you, _ Captain Rhodes. The man Agent Joseph had in mind when she founded SHIELD. Captain America, War Machine, it doesn’t matter. I need James Rhodes on my team.”

Rhodey leans back and suppresses a smile. “I know what you’re trying to do, Director.”

“Please, call me Fury.” He angles his head so his good eye is looking straight at Rhodey. Rhodey can’t tell if it’s supposed to be intimidating or if he just wants a closer read on him. “Is it working?”

“A little, yeah.” Rhodey moves the gun to the side, shuts the folder and slides in closer. “I’m in.”

“Excellent.” Fury pulls out a couple more folders from his coat and sets them down where Rhodey’s one was. On the cover of the top one, in bold letters under the SHIELD insignia, were the words 'The Avengers Initiative.’ “Then it’s time you meet your team.”


	2. Chapter 2

"Jesus Christ, Tones, are you _drunk?_ "

Tony looks up at Rhodey from where he’s sprawled more on the floor than on the couch, blankly for a second before exaggeratedly drawing his head back with a scrunched brow. “Me? _No_ \--hey!” Tony unsuccessfully tries to grab his glass, still three quarters full of expensive scotch, back from Rhodey. "What is this, the Prohibition? You a teetotaler now?"

Rhodey pokes around the fridge in Tony’s workshop for some water. "No, but it’s two pm on a Wednesday. You should be working,” Rhodey says, and then adds, under his breath, “or sober."

"Yeah, like dad isn’t probably _at least_ twice as drunk right now.”

Which is a sentiment Rhodey finds he couldn’t argue with. He downs what’s left of Tony’s drink and then hands him the glass back, as well as the water jug. "This isn't really a competition."

Tony, to his credit, takes them and pours himself a glass. "If it were, would I be winning or losing?” He takes a messy gulp and wipes away the water that dribbled down his chin.

Rhodey just sighs. He tries his best to be neutral in the whole Stark family drama thing; he owes both Howard and Tony too much, and it wasn’t his place to get involved. He sits on the corner of coffee table opposite Tony and waits for him to sober up a little.

“So,” Tony says, in between glasses, “what brings you to my workshop on this lovely Wednesday afternoon?”

“Just thought I’d pass by before I left. My leave’s finalized and everything. I’m headed for the enlistment center after this.”

Tony stops pouring his third glass of water and sets glass and jug on the floor. He pushes himself up to a proper sitting position, forcing Rhodey to sit up straighter, too, to meet his gaze. Tony’s eyes focus on the box full of Rhodey’s things that he dropped by the door when he entered, and then dart to the knapsack slung over Rhodey’s shoulder. “You’re really going through with this.”

“We’ve talked about this, Tones.”

“We haven’t even entered the war yet. You’d help more designing weapons for those who have.”

It’s surprising that _this_ is perhaps the one thing he knows Howard and Tony agree on. But then, in the end, Howard had allowed him to quit his job to enlist, even if he has only done three of the four required years working for SI in exchange for the scholarship that paid his way through MIT. Tony wouldn’t stop him-- _couldn’t_ , in his current state--but he has been trying to talk him out of enlisting since Rhodey brought up the idea when war broke out in Europe the year before. It was an old argument, one they’ve had again and again and again, but still, Rhodey says, “I can help more out there, I know I can. SI has your dad, the other engineers, _you_. I just, I have to--”

“They’ll just _waste_ you. You think they’ll put you somewhere other than some stupid support unit?”

Rhodey’s next words come out more like a plea, both to Tony and to the world. “I’ve  gotta try.”

Tony shakes his head in disbelief and smiles that self-deprecating smile of his that always breaks Rhodey’s heart. “How are you so--so _good_?”

And Rhodey want to scream at that, wants to take Tony by the shoulders and shake him, because how can he not see? “You’re more than you know, Tones. You just have to believe it.”

“See you at work tomorrow?” Tony asks, the hope in his voice reminding Rhodey of the young kid at MIT, a loner for completely opposite reasons to Rhodey, who wormed his way into his heart and became his best friend.

Rhodey squeezes his arm and gets up. “Take care, Tony.”

He picks up his box and closes the door behind him. He doesn’t hear Tony’s broken “you, too.”

 

Rhodey sits at the desk across a fresh-faced young Lieutenant who was probably not much older than him. With his smartly pressed Army greens and neatly trimmed blonde hair, the Lieutenant looked the model of the perfect soldier, and Rhodey could understand why he was chosen to be the face of the military in this stage of the recruitment.

On the wall, just behind the soldier’s head, was blue skies and an eagle flying alongside four planes Rhodey knew the every in and out of. _WINGS OVER AMERICA_ , the poster proclaimed, and Rhodey feels inspired despite himself. He is already so close.

The soldier goes through his papers--his basic information from the initial interview, his aced Army General Classification Test, his unremarkable physicals results--and shakes his head. He flips back and forth between pages, muttering under his breath.

“Are there any problems, Lieutenant?”

Rhodey knows his papers are all perfectly in order, but the soldier frowns at them, dissatisfied. “Unfortunately, we cannot accept you at this time, Mr. Rhodes.”

Rhodey stares at him uncomprehendingly.

“According to this,” the soldier continues, “you work at SI in weapons development. That would make you a II-A.”

“No, I _used to_ work at SI, but I’ve resigned.”

The soldier sets down his capped pen a little too forcefully. “Look, I’ll be honest with you here. Your records are pretty good, but-- _well_ \--”

The door opens suddenly, matching the rage that explodes in Rhodey’s chest, biting and icy cold. He didn’t expect a red carpet to be rolled out for him, but he also didn’t expect to meet this kind of resistance so early in the process.

He doesn’t break eye contact with the soldier, staring him down even as the woman who entered whispers something in his ear. The soldier breaks first, looking away to nod at the woman. Rhodey doesn’t get the chance to feel any satisfaction about that because the soldier then unceremoniously gets up and follows her out of the room.

Rhodey takes a moment to sit and stew in his anger, reveling in the way it made everything clearer and sharper, and then he takes it and distills it into something he can use. The Lieutenant didn’t leave any instructions, just up and left,  so Rhodey decides to go out of the room and look for somebody reasonable to talk to.

As he is standing though, an old, bespectacled gray-haired man of around 50 walks into the room as if he just walked straight out of the MIT physics department. “Good afternoon, Mr. Rhodes,” he says, in a thick German accent.

The accent blindsides him, shocking him out of his determination. Rhodey schools his features and tries to play polite, but the voice that comes out is still icier than he expected. “If you dont mind, where are you from, Mr.--?”

“Dr. Abraham Erskine,” the man says, offering his hand for a handshake. “Brooklyn. Before that, Germany. I’m here on behalf of the Strategic Scientific Reserve under the US Military.”

Rhodey suspicion about the accent dwindles and is replaced by suspicion about that name. He’s seen it on some of the papers Howard doesn’t bother to hide in his office. “You work with Howard Stark.”

Erskine laughs. “Yes. Yes, I do work with Mr. Stark. Do you know what we’re working on?”

“No, sir,” Rhodey says, and it’s only half a lie. He’s seen glimpses of the schematics, but as far as Rhodey can tell, it was some sort of--controlled radiation emitter, which didn’t tell him much at all. If Howard’s involved, though, then it must be both very advanced and very dangerous.

“Good, because it’s classified.” He moistens the tips of his fingers and goes through the folder in his hands. “Your file is impressive, Mr. Rhodes. Graduated from Aeronautical Engineering at MIT on a full scholarship, was taught how to fly planes by some of the best, _designs_ planes as one of SI’s top engineers… And yet you’re leaving all that behind to join the military.  All because you want to kill yourself some Nazis?”

It’s the same argument he’s had with Tony, and the old frustration resurfaces. Why did nobody understand? It wasn’t about the fight. “I want to _protect_ people from Nazis. I want to fight for the country and for the world.”

Dr. Erskine peers at him from above the folder, his eyes boring straight into Rhodey’s soul. “Even when they don’t fight for you?”

Rhodey clenches his fists and steels himself. “No, not for _them._ But for what the world can be.”

Dr. Erskine shuts the folder and puts it down, obviously pleased, and Rhodey can’t help but feel that he’s just passed some test. “I cannot offer you the sky, Mr. Rhodes,” Erskine says, “but I can offer you the chance to do something _more_.” He pauses, and tilts his head in concession. “Still the Army, unfortunately.”

“What’s the catch?”

“I cannot go into the details yet, but the catch is that there are no guarantees. There will be risks. Do you trust me, Mr. Rhodes?”

 _Not very_ , Rhodey wants to say, but he takes a long hard look at his options. He could go out of the room and argue with whoever he can find, or he can wait for the Selective Service Act to be passed and enacted, or maybe he can get Howard to pull some strings. There are no guarantees as to how any of that will pan out, though. Here, somebody is already offering something that it seems is not offered everyone. While Rhodey doesn’t entirely trust him, this man works with Howard for the military, and he knows how paranoid Howard can be.

 _A chance_ , Erskine had said. Rhodey had long learned to take every one he can get.  He’ll deal with consequences later. Slowly, Rhodey nods.

Erskine takes a stamp from the desk and finally marks Rhodey’s papers with 1A with a decisive thud. “You report to Camp Lehigh for training. The kind Lieutenant outside will give you your tickets and more details.” He hands the papers to Rhodey with the finality of handing a diploma. “And, Mr. Rhodes, good luck.”


End file.
